“Poor—well I should say so; why, I guess it comes hard on ’em to keep a cat. But then they’d rather starve themselves than to scrimp her. But they’re monstrous ginteel.”
“Dear, dear!” said the old gentleman, with great concern.
“Ye see, they’re a-workin’ to pay off that there mortgage the old squire left; been a-workin’ on’t for twenty year now, an’ mos’ likely they’ll die a-workin’ on’t; but then ‘we will die a-workin’ on’t,’ as Miss Sally said to me only t’other day; and bless my buttons, so she will,” declared Mr. Babbidge, slapping his knee.
“How much is it?” asked old Mr. King.
“Five hundred dollars,” said Abiel.
“Five hundred dollars!” repeated the old gentleman.
“Yes, ’tis, every bit; awful, ain’t it; ’cause they’re wimmen, an’ there ain’t no way for ’em to arn money, only to make jell.”
“They wouldn’t accept a little gift, you think?” asked the old gentleman suddenly, “not if she was to give it,” pointing to Polly, “or her sister?”
“Massy sakes—no,” cried Abiel in alarm; “they’d set the dorg on you; that is, Miss Sally would, if she had a dorg. They wouldn’t take it from the angel Gabrel.”
Nevertheless, when they went out of the Babbidge household, the old gentleman had made up his mind to something; and, by the time they were on the way homeward, he announced to the rest of the procession, “We are going down to the Scrannage house.”